


The Asshole and Mr Perfect

by lola381pce



Series: Imagine Clint Coulson Prompts [13]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, Backchat, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Imagine ClintCoulson, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Prompt Fic, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Phil Coulson, Rough Sex, Snark, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 05:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11639826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lola381pce/pseuds/lola381pce
Summary: For an anonymous Imagine ClintCoulson prompt:"Imagine person A and person B hate each other's guts... until they don't. Enemies to lovers trope, because I've read too many friends-to-lovers and want something different."





	The Asshole and Mr Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> We are always accepting new prompts at our tumblr account, so feel free to drop by with a little headcanon or ask.

“Assign him to…” Fury cast his eye over the list Hill held out to him. “... Coulson."

Commander Hill gave him a sharp look. “Seriously, Director? I thought you and Coulson were friends.”

“We _are_ , Hill. That’s why I _know_ he’ll get a kick out of it.”

She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him. Perfectly sculpted and somewhat disbelieving. Coulson was going to get anything _but_ a kick out of this.

“Something tells me you don’t think it’s a good idea,” Fury glared.

He couldn’t fool her though. She could see the smirk below the menacing look he was giving her and rolled her eyes at him. He may be an intelligent man with incredible instincts but the SHIELD Director’s sense of humour, not to mention his emotional sensitivity, was sometimes like a lit stick of dynamite in a game of pass the parcel; it might be exciting to start with but sooner or later someone was going to explode.

“You know they can’t stand each other, right?”

“ _Really_?” The wicked gleam in his eye was disconcerting to say the least. However it confirmed that of course he knew; he was just being a jackass. “Well now, _that’s_ just the marmite in the sandwich! Sign 'em up,” he told her disappearing in a swirl of black leather and an evil chuckle of mirth.

“Oh sure. Great! Let _me_ be the one to tell Coulson. Like I need another reason to get my will in order,” she muttered sighing dramatically. Sometimes being Fury’s Second-in-Command blew chunks. She grimaced at her turn of phrase wishing she hadn't used it; it had unfortunate connotations for her. And incidentally for Coulson.

***

“Nope. Not happening.”

Hill sighed dramatically. Again. She looked over Coulson’s desk at him. He appeared calm and composed on the outside but the hardening of his eyes told her something very different. He. Was. Pissed.

“You _could_ take it to the Director…”

“Ohhh, I intend to.”

“...but as it was _his_ idea, I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”

Thankfully that shut Coulson up. Sadly not for long. A few seconds after his brain had processed that little nugget of information he started his protest again, taking a slightly different tack.

“Huh! I bet he thought it would be funny. That I’d get some sort of kick out of it. Well you know what? Not so funny. He’s… he’s…”

“An idiot?”

Coulson paused once again in his tirade and gave Hill a narrow-eyed stare. “Wait. We talking about Fury or Barton?”

“Honestly? Take your pick.” She just wanted this to be over.

“Let’s stick with Barton. I have other names for Fury and… right now, none of them are that polite.” Coulson dropped back against his chair making Hill groan internally. He was settling in for rant number three. Maybe she should just make it an order.

“No, Barton’s not an idiot. In fact he’s the total opposite of an idiot. He’s highly intelligent, has an aptitude for mathematics and explosives, and... off hand, I can’t think of anyone better at thinking outside the box. And I _live_ outside the box. He has perfect scores in marksmanship and hand-to-hand, plus that shit he does with a bow. I have never seen a specialist drop a mark with such deadly accuracy… or from such a distance. Not to mention he’s taken the record for the SHIELD tactical course. Again. You know what? Don’t mention that.”

The last one was said with more than a little vehemence. Actually, more with hatred… a deep-seated hatred and fierce indignation. Hill smiled to herself. She could work with that.

“Sounds like you’re in love, Coulson. Except maybe for that last part.”

“Yeah. Love. Sure. Are you _kidding_ me right now? He’s also an asshole. Deviates from orders, has a problem with authority, refuses to listen to his SOs. He’s reckless, sullen, uncommunicative, works poorly in a team. Okay, that been said, he's been known to help out struggling agents who show a willingness to learn. But… god help his handlers. They tend to end up with a revolving door appointment to the psych department. And did I say he’s taken the record for the SHIELD tactical course? _Again_!”

Oh that was such a sore point. And a weakness. One which Hill could exploit.

“Several times actually. The record you held undefeated for… what? Three years? Well, until Barton came along. The record you said not to mention. The one you've mentioned twice now. Honestly, Coulson. I thought you’d see this as a challenge. Now it just sounds like you’re scared.”

Subtly she held her breath. It couldn’t be that easy. Could it? Not with Coulson.

Coulson halted his tirade and looked at her, the muscles in his jaw clenched tight. If it had been anyone other than Hill (and perhaps a handful of other people) they would have been worried right now. Unless they were too stupid to realise that when Coulson went quiet it was time to duck and cover.

Hill however had seen Coulson half-naked, whining about “ouchies” like a two year old while getting stitches put in his head having managed to brain himself puking in a plant pot. Admittedly it was a big plant pot… and a lot of puke. This was after drinking too much of a certain brand of tequila on a Sitwell dare. Neither his brow nor his constitution for tequila had ever been the same again. Come to think of it, neither had the plant.

In fairness, he’d held Hill's hair out of her face and rubbed her back as she barfed up everything she’d eaten for the last 12 months (at least) then hugged her through her nonsensical tequila-induced blubbering when she’d attempted the same feat a few months later. She, at least, had managed to keep her clothes on… just. God, she should have known better that night. Asshole Sitwell!

(And for the record, tequila dares were now banned by order of Director Fury.)

Anyway, point being they didn’t scare each other so much nowadays.

Silently Coulson held out his hand for the paperwork and, not taking his eyes off hers, put his signature in the box with an angry flourish thus accepting Clinton Francis Barton as his new specialist. Keeping her poker face intact Hill winced internally. She was going to pay dearly for this at some point. And when she least expected it.

“Four years,” Coulson growled as she turned on her heel and walked away. Yeah. Time to start sleeping with one eye open… again. Damn Fury and his balls sense of humour.

***

“Barton. With me,” snapped Coulson in his best don’t-fuck-with-me tone as he past by the open door to an abandoned break room. _Formerly_ abandoned now that Clint had apparently taken up residence.

The specialist was sitting on the work surface, drinking coffee straight from the pot which annoyed Coulson in several ways; 1) the coffee smelled fantastic and he desperately wanted a cup 2) the coffee machine was better than the one he had in his office 3) who the hell drinks from the pot, and 4) he’d had to track the specialist down himself instead of just sending a junior agent to go find him in any of the usual places because he wasn’t _in_ any of the usual places.

Expecting Coulson to double back and drag him from the break room to yell at him, Barton stayed where he was and continued drinking his coffee with a satisfied smirk on his face. However, after a minute or so when he didn't reappear, he replaced the pot, slid off the counter and poked his head out into the corridor. There was no sign of Coulson. Well shit! Couldn’t have been that important then. Unless of course... it was. Barton was waiting for his next handler and assignment. Perhaps Coulson was going to tell him who it was. Double shit!

Feeling aggrieved that the senior agent hadn’t been more forthcoming with why he wanted to see him, Barton set off for his office...

… and left it again twenty minutes later with his ears still smarting from his new handler’s ominous words.

“ _And next time I say ‘Barton, with me’ I expect it to happen immediately. I have neither the time nor inclination to put up with your bullshit. You do that in the field and one day one of us isn’t coming back_.”

And before he could respond Coulson’s calm voice had dismissed him and he’d lowered his gaze back to his computer leaving him too gobsmacked to mouth off.

“Sonofa- _bitch_!” Barton muttered to himself barely holding his temper. He stomped along the corridor, fuming. Of all the people he _could_ have ended up with he got lumbered with fucking Coulson. Mr Perfect. Mr-Never-Shits Coulson. Even having Sitwell back again would be better than him – although he’d probably burned his bridges there what with that elephant and the bucket of tiger prawns and all. Took a long time to clean that mess up.

Senior Agent Phillip J Coulson. With his fancy suits, cool-as-fuck attitude and reputation as a serious badass motherfucker who didn't take shit from anybody. Not even Hill or Fury.

At least he had the satisfaction of knocking him off the top of the tactical course leader board. Again. Finally a smile broke out over his face, smug as as fuck!

Barton needed to know more about Coulson. He needed to know what made him tick. He’s heard the rumours: Coulson’s so hard Chuck Norris goes to him for advice; Coulson once took out a group of Hydra agents with a deadpan expression and a dry turn of phrase; Coulson is Nick Fury’s right hand man because Fury owes him (although nobody’s quite clear what on that one). He knows it’s all bullshit (except maybe the second one) but where there’s smoke...

He considered his options.

He was reluctant to ask the other specialists who might have worked with Coulson. They’re a weird species of gossiping fuckbags that would say shit about their own grandmothers if it wound another specialist up. He knows this is a fact because he does it himself when he can be bothered. Everyone’s got to have a hobby, right?

He could try asking HR but they’ll just tell him he’s made his lumpy, uncomfortable bed and he’ll just have to sleep in it. He’s won no friends there considering probably half their paperwork revolves around him and his problems with SHIELD handlers.

He could try some of said SHIELD handlers he’s worked with but that would be worse than HR. He had even less friends in that group of tightasses. Hence the reason he’s in his current predicament. He really regrets pissing Sitwell off now.

Barton threw himself into a chair in the rec room with his best murderface on, dropping his feet onto a table with a loud bang. The other weird species of gossipping fuckbags smirked at each other ready to mess with him regarding whatever had pissed him off.

Brock Rumlow, one of the gossip-iest, carefully placed his pool cue down and went over to sit beside him nudging Barton's feet off the table on the way past.

“Fuck off,” Barton growled, slamming his feet back in the same place again.

“Aww! What's up, kitten? Someone touch your precious Betsy?”

Barton simply glared at him. It was unlikely that would ever happen again. The last person to touch his bow would always have a crooked nose that whistled when he breathed.

“What’s up then?”

“Been banned from the range again,” someone shouted from the kitchen area.

“Finally been caught scaring the baby agents from the air vents,” guessed another.

“Bet he got his new handler,” a third voice crowed from the pool table as she lined up her shot.

Barton narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest in a petulant sulk, annoyed that contestant number three had guessed correctly.

Rumlow raised an eyebrow in interest. “Is that right? So… who'd ya get, babycakes!”

Barton didn’t respond immediately then, when he gauged the suspense had built enough he growled, “Coulson.”

The rec room fell silent then erupted into raucous laughter. The archer was unamused. Fuckers! Barton’s hatred of Coulson was well known as was their ongoing feud over leading the tactical course scoreboard

He glowered at everyone and flipped them off with both hands. “Fuck you all!”

“Look, I need to know his weak points. What gets under his skin,” he said to Rumlow after the laughter died down.

The other specialist shook his head and got up to return to his pool game. “Nuh-uh. You wanna fuck with Coulson, you’re on your own.”

“He’s not _that_ fucking awesome,” Clint snapped.

“Never said he was. But I kinda like my job. And my balls. Besides, you’re running out of options, hotshot. Maybe you should work with this one instead of against him.”

“I would if the pricks ever gave me a chance,” he muttered under his breath pushing himself off the chair. Looks like he’s on his own then. As usual.

***

And so came their first mission together.

Coulson had just briefed the team on the op, assigned tasks, and was currently going through the mission intel packs and aerial photos of the terrain when Clint snorted. It just came out. He didn't mean to, he honestly couldn’t help it.

Coulson immediately turned his head towards him pinning him with those intense blue eyes of his. Clint gulped and was annoyed at himself for the involuntary reaction.

“Something to add, Agent Barton?” Coulson asked mildly. And here we go, he thought to himself. This is the pissy attitude that drove his other handlers nuts. Well, he wasn’t other handlers. If it drove him nuts he wasn’t going to let it show. He could be a stubborn pain in the ass too.

Clint shrugged but said nothing. Coulson waited. And waited. Until the silence started to become uncomfortable. Eventually Clint decided fuck it. If the prick wanted an answer he wasn't gonna like he was just gonna have to give it to him. He leaned forward to place his forefinger on the photo.

“You have blind spot right here,” he said, tapping it slowly.

Ignoring the heavy sarcasm in the finger tapping, Coulson looked at where Clint was pointing. He was right. Fuck! He scribbled a few notes on his pad then looked back at him.

“Suggestions?”

Again Clint said nothing for a moment then deciding Coulson wasn’t going to tear him a new one, that he actually _wanted_ his opinion, pointed to another spot on the photo.

“If you put me there I'll have eyes everything and keep you and the team on the ground updated with any threats to your positions.”

It was a considerable distance from the spot in which Coulson had originally placed him however he had to admit the location was superior for what Barton’s proposing. But _only_ if he could still provide sniper support. Coulson knew he was good but… was he _that_ good?

“And you can take out _any_ targets from there?”

After a moment searching Coulson’s face for signs of mockery, he could tell his question was asked not with ridicule but with a genuine need to know that he could do the job. Satisfied, Clint nodded once and gave Coulson the conformation he was seeking with a confident “Yes.”

“Appreciate the input, Agent.” Coulson made a few more notes and moved on.

They continued through the rest of briefing with Coulson listening to everyone’s comments, occasionally scribbling in his pad, and patiently explaining certain aspects again for those who needed clarification. Eventually he leaned back in his seat.

“Anything else?” he asked.

There were murmurs from around the table but no-one had anything new to add. With that Coulson dismissed everyone with a thank you and a promise to get the updated packs to them within the hour.

Clint was last to leave and hesitated as he went out the door.

“Problem, Barton?” Coulson asked, his tone cool and detached.

He wanted to thank Coulson for listening to what he had to say. For giving him the chance to put his point across without dismissing him out of hand like so many other handlers had done. The problem was, Clint may be the World's Greatest Marksman but he was the World’s Worst Person at the whole expressing gratitude thing so instead he blurted out, “I can take out all targets from there.”

Aw, mouth no! Even to his own ears Clint sounded childish and argumentative.

Coulson’s expression hardly changed except from a slight raising of his eyebrow.

“I thought the fact I was issuing revised intel packs made it clear I was taking you at your word, Specialist,” Coulson replied calmly. He tilted his head to the side, a little half-smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. “Or do you want me to pat you on the head and tell you what a good boy you are?”

And that’s when Clint remembered what a dick Coulson was. Snarky fucker! Yeah like he was ever going to let _that_ happen.

He gave Coulson a slow smirk. “I’m just surprised you believed me especially after I kicked your ass on the tac course again.”

Coulson barely held back a sigh. He’d thought Barton had more to him than this. His comments during the briefing had been insightful and well argued and would very likely improve the success of the mission. Now he was back to being an asshole again. Awesome!

“I think the tactical course thing means a whole lot more to you than it does me, Barton.”

“Really? So how come you keep going back to beat my scores?”

“It’s good for my cardio,” Coulson deadpanned as he stood to gather the last of his files together. “I’ll have an agent drop your intel pack off at your bunk. Make sure you’re there to accept it.”

Clint touched his fingers to his temple in a mock salute. “Yessir.”

Fifty-eight minutes later when Clint opened his file, the first thing he saw was a yellow sticky note attached to the briefing photo with a circle drawn around the position of his new nest. The sticky note read “Good boy”.

He barked out a laugh despite himself. So Mr Perfect apparently had a sense of humour.

***

“Sooo… the op turned out to be one giant clusterfuck,” Hill told Fury, nonchalantly leaning against the bookcase in his office. When the SHIELD Director didn't rise to the bait she continued albeit with some reluctance. She knew she was about to prove his instinct had been right again.

“If it hadn’t been for all the preparation beforehand, and Coulson being his usual unflappable self while he handled the situation on the ground, incidentally working from information being fed to him by Barton from his nest, plus Barton’s shit-hot skills as a sniper, the team would never have made it out of there alive.”

Fury pretended to hide his satisfied smirk behind a forefinger pressed against his lips as Hill gave him a rundown of the mission. Normally as handler, Coulson would have done this but Fury had sent him (and Barton) on another op the moment they got back barely giving them time to shower and repack their go-bags.

Hill rolled her eyes at him and proceeded with her summary. He was going to be insufferable if this partnership actually worked out.

As it turned out “worked out” was something of an understatement.

***

It was their fifth op together and while they weren't exactly BFFs, they had begun to respect and trust each other. Maybe _almost_ like each other. Almost.

For Clint, Coulson was an excellent handler; a calm voice in his ear, keeping him safe with alternate routes and backup plans if the shit hit the fan, and giving him an unprecedented amount of leeway during their missions. He was also surprisingly funny with a subtle sense of humour that a lot of people just didn’t get. Clint did. He only pretended he didn’t to bust Coulson’s balls.

And Coulson couldn’t have asked for a better specialist in Barton; cool under pressure, an exceptional marksman, and a surprisingly talented undercover operative with the ability to adapt with ease when the situation called for it. And while other handlers found his inane chatter wearing and annoying Coulson found it amusing, even looking forward to it when they were together. That, however, Coulson kept to himself, instead responding with his usual dry wit and deadpan delivery.

But this op, the fifth op, reminded Clint of their first from several months earlier. The complete and utter shit-fest as it turned out. Despite it being such, or perhaps because of it, the way Coulson had trusted Barton to call the shots from his nest while he got his team to safety, had made him realise Coulson was more than just another suit-wearing control freak like a lot of handlers were.

Coulson genuinely cared about his people and would do pretty much anything to keep them safe. Including listen to him even though there was no love lost between them. Clint had never experienced that before and it marked a change in his behaviour towards Coulson. He was more respectful, less arrogant, and would usually obey his orders without question. That's not to say he didn't give him grief. He did. Everyone had to have a hobby, right?

But this time it was his body’s reaction this time that took him by surprise.

Clint had only just managed to warn him in time when he caught sight of some dumbass civilians as they headed towards the hot zone. Coulson had been forced to break cover thanks to them appearing unexpectedly at the rear of the surveillance truck on Coulson’s blindside. Where the fuck was the local law enforcement that was supposed to be _assisting_ the op?

Jesus! He’d looked so goddamned hot when he jumped out of the back of the van with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his tac-vest on; taking charge, giving orders, herding them to safety. Clint _hated_ that not for the first time, he found Coulson so attractive. He also hated that he was so fucking hard for him at that moment. Still he'd managed to take out the target without a hitch, rigid dick notwithstanding.

However, when they met up at the rendezvous point Clint had stalked him like a predatory animal, grabbed him by the straps of the vest and slammed him hard against the SHIELD vehicle. Couldn’t help himself. He just stared at Coulson for a moment… for an eternity… pinning him to the truck with his eyes and then his body as he finally pressed against him, hands on either side of Coulson’s head.

Coulson said nothing. Did nothing. Just kept his eyes, blown and hungry, locked on Clint’s letting him make the decision. And when he did it was hot, wet mouths desperately kissing the fuck out of each other. Nipping teeth, exploring tongues, swollen lips. They almost didn’t make it home to Phil’s apartment. They’d _almost_ fucked against the side panel of the surveillance truck. Shit! It had been so intense.

And the sex had been the same.

Somehow they’d managed to sit through the debriefing, giving Hill a detailed rundown of all that happened. Coulson had insisted. However the tension in the air had been so thick, she’d cut the session short just to get rid of them. She was correct that they were about to explode but so wrong with the reason.

They headed for Coulson's place separately not wanting to draw any more attention to themselves. The door had barely slammed behind them when they were on each other. Tearing off clothes. Lips, tongues, teeth attacking bare skin. Hands everywhere touching, stroking, pressing against flesh that was hot and flushed.

Clint pushed Coulson against the wall, sucking and mouthing along the solid muscle above his collarbone, his fist wrapping around Coulson's cock slowly rubbing up and down his length. Fuck he was a big, thick boy. He’d enjoy playing with that some more later.

Coulson thrust into his hand letting go a long moan of pleasure followed by, “Fuck me, Barton. Just… fuck me.”

“Supplies?” Clint asked gruffly, surprised but not arguing about who was fucking who.

“Bedroom.”

They made it there remarkably without incident, lube and condoms quickly pulled from the night stand. Coulson prepped himself as Clint watched through hooded eyes, rolling on a condom and slicking up his shaft. He was getting more and more turned on as he observed Coulson on his hands and knees, his own slicked-up fingers disappearing into his ass, stretching and widening his hole in readiness. He was also amused to see it was done with the same ruthless efficiency that Coulson seemed to exert in everything he did. It was also pretty fucking hot.

“Now. Fuck me now,” Coulson finally demanded over his shoulder. It hadn’t taken long, a couple of minutes in reality, but it felt like forever.

“And do it hard.”

No further encouragement was needed. Clint was on him, pushing steadily in from behind, holding himself back as much as he could for as long as he could in an effort not to hurt his handler but it wasn’t for long. The noises Coulson was making as Clint's cock breached his ass sliding into his tight hole, were almost enough to tip him over the edge there and then.

Hands gripping tight onto Coulson’s hips, he slammed into him over and over, muscles straining with the effort. Coulson fell onto one shoulder, the side of his face pressed into the pillow, hands clutching the sheets as Clint fucked him hard into the mattress. Neither could speak. Each thrust was punctuated with a grunt or a moan or a rabid curse, accompanied by the rhythmic slap of skin on skin.

The pace became almost brutal, a sheen of sweat coating both of them, their hair damp with it. Clint was getting close, his balls tightening, his whole body shaking. Apparently so was Coulson who grabbed hold of his own length and pulled the orgasm from his cock in a few savage strokes, crying out as he came and came hard. And loud. Very, very loud. Clint was right behind him body jerking as Coulson’s hole clenched round his shaft milking the come from him. Finally, chest heaving and still inside him, he collapsed on top of Coulson pressing him further into the sweaty sheets.

“Fuck,” he panted into his handler’s burning skin. Coulson snorted out a wry laugh.

“We did… yes,” he deadpanned.

Clint huffed out his own snicker. “Still don't like you. And your humour’s shit.”

He tenderly pressed kisses into Coulson's skin as he talked causing Coulson to moan softly at the feel of his lips and at the touch of his fingertips stroking up and down his thigh.

“My humour will always be shit, and... you need to work on your undercover skills. Pretty sure you like me a little. Ah fuck! Right there,” he groaned.

“Maybe just a little,” Clint conceded after pretending to consider Coulson’s words for a moment. He mouthed along Coulson’s shoulder, licking and nibbling the freckles humming with pleasure at the saltiness of Coulson’s sweat on his lips and tongue. It tasted perfect.

“This bit’s kinda nice.”

“Asshole,” Coulson murmured.

“Yeah… it’s pretty sweet too.”

Not that Clint could see, but Coulson rolled his eyes.

“You talk too much, Barton. Get your dick outta my ass and your mouth busy with something else.”

“Yessir,” Clint retorted, his voice dripping with a bucket load of sarcasm. Nonetheless he happily complied with both orders. Apparently they weren't quite finished yet and he was pretty much okay with that.

After tossing the condom in the trash bin near the bed, he rolled Coulson onto his back admiring his sexy-as-fuck hairy chest for a moment or several. Those suits of his hid a surprisingly hot, muscular body. Lying with one leg curled round Coulson’s, he kissed him thoroughly on the mouth, licking along seam of his lips before dipping his tongue inside to explore. They both moaned as his tongue gently brushed against Coulson's igniting sparks of pleasure through them.

One of his hands kept itself busy by sliding through the wiry hair of Coulson’s chest to pinch a nipple between his forefinger and thumb. The delicious combination of the kiss and pinch pulled a long, drawn out moan from Coulson as he arched into Clint's touch.

“Better?” Clint drawled. He felt Coulson smirk against his lips.

“Yeah,” he replied and paused for a beat before adding, “Good boy.”

Clint drew back and looked at him in disbelief. “See? This type of shit is exactly why I don't like you.”

He twisted Coulson's nipple hard causing him to shout “ow” through his laughter. He liked Coulson laughing. It made his eyes crinkle at corners. Why had he ever noticed that before? Maybe because he's never seen him laugh like that before. He usually had that carefully blank expression on round him which usually meant he was pissed at him. Or sometimes that faintly amused look he had. The one with the raised eyebrow and almost-smile and the slight tilt of his head. The one that could mean anything.

He definitely liked the laughter.

In retaliation Coulson pushed Clint over onto his back as Clint had done with him. Unlike Clint however, he deliberately aimed for the wet patch making him cry out and squirm.

“Ew! Wet bit! Wet bit!”

“And there you’ll stay until you accept some rules.”

Aww, rules no! “Really, Coulson? You have rules for sex? And you’re telling me this now? By the way your timing’s kinda fucked up.”

“Yes rules. First rule: no nipple twisting. Pinching, yes. Plenty of pinching.”

He demonstrated by doing both to Clint making him yelp.

“‘Kay. No twisting. Got it. Anything else, boss?” he pouted reaching for his chest to comfort the injured party.

Coulson pushed his hand away leaned down to caress Clint’s abused nipple with his tongue, teasing it with the tip and lapping at it with the flat before drawing the tight little nub into his mouth to suck it gently. Now it was Clint’s turn to moan. Fuck! That felt good.

“If that's rule number two, I'm so fucking on board with it.”

Coulson flicked his eyes up at him and grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He kissed and nipped along Clint’s smooth chest to the other nipple and did the same again causing Clint to press his head back into the mattress and release an appreciative whimper. Oh he was _soooo_ fucking into this. This was _much_ better than not liking.

All too soon Coulson stopped with the nipple play (aww) and slowly kissed up Clint’s chest to his neck mouthing his way along the line of his jaw to the soft patch of skin below his ear. Clint’s cock valiantly tried to rise again but sadly it could manage nothing more than a few interested twitches. Be a while before he could fully power up again. Didn’t mean to say he couldn’t enjoy what was on offer right now though.

“Jesus, Coulson!” he murmured. “That fucking mouth of yours.”

“You like that?” Coulson asked, pulling back to gaze down at him.

“Had better,” he smirked and Coulson barked out a short laugh.

“Always the asshole,” he chided however there was no heat to it.

“Always,” Clint agreed. “But so far you’re the only one that’s appreciated it. Now are you gonna let me off this fucking wet patch or do you have some more rules for me? Not that I’m complaining…”

“Much.”

“Fuck you, sir.”

“Thought we’d established that.”

“Haha. But seriously, this is kinda gross.”

“Well far be it for me to make you feel kinda gross, Barton.” Coulson shifted to let Clint move position.

They lay side by side (not easy as said wet patch was pretty large) staring at the ceiling. It wasn't awkward as such but it wasn't quite as chilled as it had been moments before.

Coulson spoke first. Unusual. Clint was normally the one who blurted shit out.

“Look… I don't mean to make this weird…”

Clint tensed beside him. Ah. That would be his cue to go then. He felt the happiness he'd felt briefly drain away with those few words.

“...but stay. If you want to. No pressure either way. I mean… if this was a one off, that's fine. I get that. I'm good with that. But… if you want to… you know… revisit this? Maybe?”

Clint turned his head to stare at Coulson in surprise as he babbled on, oblivious to the way Clint was looking at him. The fuck? Mr Perfect. Mr Never-Shits Coulson was actually fumbling for words. In truth he really hadn’t thought much beyond getting Coulson into bed. He kinda figured afterwards there’d be some awkward 'well that was fun but fuck off now’ moment but apparently Coulson wanted him to stay. To spend the night. The chill that had settled in his chest suddenly turned to warmth and spread all over him.

He gave Coulson another tens seconds of verbal diarrhoea before finally taking pity on him. And himself. He rolled onto his elbow to lean in and capture his mouth in a deep, silencing kiss.

“I'll stay. If you just shut up,” he said when they eventually broke apart. “And maybe change the sheets.”

Coulson grinned. “Good…”

“Don't say it. Don't fucking say it.”

“...idea.”

Clint narrowed his eyes and looked at Coulson’s mischievous smirk. “You were going to say it, weren’t you. You were soo going to say ‘good boy’.”

Coulson didn’t answer but his faintly amused look with the raised eyebrow, and the little half-smile and the slight tilt of his head gave him away. He was _definitely_ going to say it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the prompt Anon, hope you enjoy the fill. As always, please feel free to leave comments and thank you all for taking the time to read the latest Clint/Coulson fic. New to my works, or a regular visitor, it's a pleasure to have you on board ~ Lola


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